


System Reset

by watson_amo_holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Heavy Angst, M/M, Self-Harm, please read the tags, this may be triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9480299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watson_amo_holmes/pseuds/watson_amo_holmes
Summary: Dum Spiro SperoWhile I breathe, there is hope------------------------------May be triggering, PLEASE READ THE TAGS!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. I'm depressed as hell right now (I got hit by a car and I've spent the past few days cooped up inside with nothing to do) so I thought I'd expel my emotionless rampage on my mind the only way I know how: ANGST. 
> 
> I have had a history of self-harm, and personally, reading or seeing things involving the topic does not trigger me, but I know many people that do get severely triggered by it, so if you think this may be you, please God do not read. SEE THE TAGS ABOVE, OKAY? Stay safe.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Sherlock’s mind was black, blank, empty, and dark. His mind palace was nothing but empty corridors now, data trapped behind locked black doors and heavy steel padlocks from top to bottom. In other circumstances, Sherlock might have been grateful for the silence, but like this, it was agony. Every second that ticked by rang in his ears and made his head throb in its vacuum. Nothing. Not a single thought, not a single connection, not a single feeling; nothing.

_Nothing._

There wasn’t anything else he could do to make thoughts and _life_ flood his brain again, so Sherlock picked up his feet weighed down like lead from the sofa and plodded over to the bathroom, being cautiously quiet out of habit, even though John didn’t live there anymore. Drugs weren’t an option, too risky to relapse, and he could end up dead before long. This was better. It was controllable. Disguisable.

The white bathroom was grimy and dirt ridden since John had gone; there had been no-one else to clean it. The bathtub was filthy with the remnants of Sherlock’s experiments, but the sink still had hints of clean, crisp white porcelain from the whispers of anti-bacterial and bleach from many moons ago. It still _smelt_ like bleach if Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough past the clouds in his brain, fogging over everything, leaving him blind and lost in his own head. It would stop soon.

Opening the cupboard above the sink with an audible creak, Sherlock grimaced slightly at its emptiness. What once was filled with John’s meds and shaving cream and lotions and hair gel, was now just home to a single small black box, one John had never snooped into. Sherlock had left it on open display because he was sure of that fact, never afraid that John would ever break his unspoken promise. Despite his curiosity that he could sometimes see lingering in John’s eyes after a shave, he had never asked, and had never opened the box. John was a man of loyalty, and regardless of Sherlock’s own lack of consideration for other’s possessions and privacy, John still held on to his ground.

Sherlock’s fingers danced over the lid in a trance, his fingertips tracing the Latin lettering on the lid in metallic gold. It was a gift from Mummy for his 25th birthday. ‘ _Dum spiro spero’,_ it read. He’d scoffed at it when his eyes found the meaning of the gold letters, but he couldn’t deny the soft black-painted wood box was still a beautiful thing.

 _‘While I breathe, there is hope.’_ Fanciful.

He took the lid off slowly, sitting down on the lid of the toilet, and gazed at its contents with dilated pupils and heavy breathing. He needed this. He _craved_ this. He _deserved_ this. Punishment for everything he had done, especially to John. He’d jumped off of Bart’s and let John grieve instead of taking him onto the rooftop with him to face off Moriarty. He’d killed John’s wife, the mother of their child, too young, too fragile to be motherless. That had been him, and he needed something to purge himself, not of blame, but to purge himself of some of the guilt and blackness consuming his mind. _Atonement._

Tailored suit cuffs were already rolled up to the elbow, but Sherlock was never stupid enough to do it in plain sight were it could be easily deduced by his brother and glimpsed by his doctor. Well, his former doctor.

He undid his £500 trousers with ease, his body in autopilot as it followed its automatic instructions to quench its thirst. Sherlock slid them down to the knees and took down one side of his boxer briefs, exposing a bony but toned hip, a mirage of angry red healing lines and softer white dashes painting the surface. He probably could get away with going to his thighs this time. John didn’t live here anymore, so there was no risk of accidentally having them on show when Sherlock had a thin towel wrapped around his waist after a shower, but old habits die hard and he couldn’t quite bring himself to allow his self-infliction to spread. He could contain it for now. For now, it was manageable.

Sherlock reached out for the box again which was perched on the edge of the sink, picking out a blade. It was one of the shop-bought single razors, sharp and shining in the afternoon light filtering through the tiny window above the toilet and gold cast over Sherlock’s hand, making his skin gleam like it was ethereal.

He chose a spot away from past scars and new wounds, stroking his thumb over the inch of unmarred skin almost like an apology, before he brought down the blade, watching as it licked open his skin and breathing out at the release of endorphins flooding through his bloodstream. The blood spotted in places along the cavern, running down, slowly down, a warm reminder of being alive. Humming to life, the gears started to turn again, and it made Sherlock gasp for breath like he was breathing for the first time, finally able to fill his lungs with oxygen after a lifetime drowning and breathing in water.

Sherlock’s head thumped against the wall, his eyelids fluttering shut as the doors in his mind palace bust, water flooding the corridors from behind them and clearing the fog. Slowly, the lights started to flicker off, on, off, on, off, on, before they buzzed to life and shone out. System reset. So Sherlock breathed, his nostrils welcoming the cool breeze, his lungs thankful as his chest rose and fell in tandem.

So he breathed, and he breathed, and he breathed.

And for a single, agonising breath, he hoped.

 

 


End file.
